NSFW language, animated jizz
In case Big Daddy Drew's Peter King fan-fiction gay erotica just isn't doing it for you anymore, the twisted sickos at ZubazPants.com have unleashed this tale of wanton lust. We may have to do two cheerleader posts this week to atone for this.
Yee-Haw! Good golly jee-willickers! Holy Moly! Dad gummit! D'yoo see that, maw! I gots me a new trofee for da shed out back! Man, I was going so gotdang fast, I was hotter than a pidgeon covered in molasses on a Tuesday morning! Whoo-wee!
I gonna git me some money now, buy Jim Bob Junior that second pair of blue jeans he's always wanted. An' me and my girl ken finally get hitched. We won't even be cousins anymore! This is so dang great! I'm the grand champeen of racin'!
What yew say? This only the firrst race o' the year? Sheeit.
The historic staff meeting this past weekend marked the first time ever that all six of the KSK contributers were in the same room. And that room was in the Charles E. Beatley, Jr. Central Library in Alexandria, VA.
We felt that the ambiance of the occasion, the awkwardness of our first live interactions, and the content of our discussions warranted documentation, and what better opportunity to share some footage of that get-together than right here, after the official end of another NFL season.
The BlogWorld convention is starting today! And our friends Will Leitch and Jamie Mottram are there! It's gonna make ComicCon look like a goddamn Alpha Beta party! WITH stair diving!
Fuck this bullshit, why do I do this to myself. I hate cursive and I hate all of you! I'm never playing fantasy football again, NEVER!
Like most of you, I've managed to accept preseason football for what it is, an imperfect substitute that will hold me over until the real thing starts in two weeks. But lately, I feel like the concept of the whole exhibition thing has really rubbed off on other aspects of my life. I suppose I could give you some examples...
I was going through my Gmail contacts yesterday and noticed that I have exactly 70 email adresses stored there. I sent out a group email telling everyone that they had "better show me something" before the end of the week, because that's when I'm trimming the list down to 53. Aunt Tammi is in the hospital, so I haven't decided whether to put her on the injured list or cut her right away and hope she catches on with another relative.
Our local Shakespeare in the Park has been pretty lame over the past month. I hear they're saving all their good plays for September.
My best friend's wife suggested to him the other day that they try a threesome, just for some summer fun. He refused, but then she suggested a compromise: he would get to be inside her for the first 30 minutes, and then the other guy would get whatever was left over. I know he's concerned about "controversy," but she reiterated that he'd still be the No. 1 guy after Labor Day.
And me? Personally, I've been focusing on technique this summer...
Our office had a meeting not too long ago to celebrate our division's exceeding revenue expectations. At the end of the meeting, I stood up in the conference room and plainly said, "This don't mean shit. Let's see y'all do this when it matters." The veterans in senior management slowly nodded in approval.
The meeting was at noon, and then some kid just out of college finished my work for the rest of the day. Paul in accounting tripped over a open filing cabinet and dislocated his shoulder. Now he's out four-to-six. Never shoulda been there, man.
I caught the new kid in the neighborhood cutting through my yard the other day so I taped him to a flagpole and made him sing his school's fight song. It didn't have anything to do with football; I just did it because he's a dipshit.
We've been going through the thousands of submissions you've sent us for the FF contest, and, in a interesting reversal, it has been US enjoying YOUR work over the last couple of weeks. Your pics and stories have been most entertaining, and we would be remiss if we did not share the ones that didn't suck the love. We will continue to accept entries through the weekend.
This submission comes from Muffmaster C, and rather than prattle on, I'll simply give him the floor:
I know that I have exceeded the mandated 250 word count, but I think it will be worth your while:
Being from the Chicagoland area, I venture up north to Wisconsin a couple times a year to get fall-down drunk and harass the degenerate cocksuckers that are Packer fans. Last summer a couple buddies and I made the trek to Manitowish Waters (imagine “The Great Outdoors” sans the lonely, but fuckable local girl) and hit up one of the many dive bars that plague this bastard child of a state. 
Sporting orange and blue we waltz in like we own the joint and get more dirty looks than Isaiah Washington at a Gay Pride Parade. As the booze starts flowing, so do our overtly loud comments regarding Brett Favre’s drug dependencies and Charles Martin’s demise (isn’t karma a bitch). From the back of the bar someone yells, “At least our coach isn’t a limp dick, boner pill hustler.”
The moderately-sized crowd parts like the Red Sea and there stands a Rastafarian looking d-bag sporting flip-flops and socks. Not recognizing this guy, Dan (part of our crew) fired back with “I loved your work in 'Cool Runnings'.” At this point, Ziggy Marley realizes that we are a bunch of drunk assholes, mutters “Eat a dick” just loud enough for us to hear and gets back to his game of pool.
We polish off a few more rounds and we hear people saying something about Al Harris. Simultaneously we all realized that Douchey McRaggae was none other than the aforementioned Packers cornerback. Relatively shitfaced, we wrap at the bar and take one last parting shot as we walk out the door, “Harris, you get beat more than a red-headed step child.”
And as we walk by the floor-to-ceiling window in front of the bar we hear a knocking sound and see Al Harris drop his pants, slap his dong on the glass and flip us off while nodding like a bobble-head. Bewildered and thinking we’re about to get our asses kick by a professional athlete we all ran like girls made a clean get away without a confrontation.
I wish I could have told you that Al was molesting farm animals with some teammates, but the Packers hadn’t drafted A.J. Hawk yet.
Thanks, Muff!
Last week ESPN's primary source of breaking news--Mike and Mike In the Morning--informed us that their buddy Mark Schlereth has a new gig. The Big Stinky will be moonlighting as Detective Rock Hoover (a name of his own creation) on Guiding Light, a show older than Philo T. Farnsworth himself.
Stink is set to become the second ESPN television "personality" to crossover into the world of retarded housewives the beautiful people after Stephen A. Smith agreed to a cameo on General Hospital. Now we all know what prompted Smith to make an ass of himself...
...but why would Schlereth stoop to such lows? I can still remember when he was known for being one hardcore motherfucking lineman and know it's come to this?
That's Alexandria on the far 
The Panthers cut QB Chris Weinke, arguably the most uninspiring two-sport athlete of our generation, on Tuesday. Yeah, hard to believe that drafting a 28-year-old quarterback didn't pay greater dividends for them.
Some highlights of Weinke's career:
- Played six years of minor league baseball, probably dusted off many a tired vagina on road trips during a mediocre career as a struggling third baseman, playing with many future stars such as Juan Marichal and Goose Gossage.
- Enrolled at Florida State to play football at Florida State, probably slipped Captain Weinke into some coeds over at FSU that were less than half his age plus seven.
- Became the first player to win the Heisman Trophy with erectile dysfunction.
- started 27 games in the NFL, all with the Panthers. Was eventually replaced by Rodney Peete, who was replaced by a celibate homeless guy at the Charlotte Bus Station, who was replaced by Jake Delhomme.
Weinke will probably spend time getting back to Jesus; they've lost touch since they went to elementary school together.
